


Reminded Me of You

by LostSoftSpaceDyke



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, back at it again with the fluff, crowley is a sappy bastard, i cannot express how much this is fluff, reminiscing on the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-10-02 00:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20452487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostSoftSpaceDyke/pseuds/LostSoftSpaceDyke
Summary: Crowley has always been sentimental, clinging to little things that remind him of his angel. There’s just one thing, one thing that reminds him of how quickly things could fall apart, that he’s never quite managed to replicate.Started as a joke and then it got sad and then it got sappy so here y’all go!





	Reminded Me of You

There’s…a scent. It’s pleasant; quite pleasant actually. But the angel can’t identify it for the life of him. It’s dark and somehow both sour and woodsy at once, like the grittier beers he remembers from the precious few nights spent drunk with Crowley in ancient Rome. Neither of them had ever been much for beer but it was a somewhat new arrival in the empire around the time they had first visited and, well, neither angel nor demon could turn down alcohol after a week like _that._**  
**

Whatever the scent is, its strong, strong enough that he can pick up on it from Crowley’s doorstep, which is where he’s been for the past twenty minutes because he’s a gentleman and gentlemen don’t break into their partners’ homes.

He checks his watch. It has been a while…

Crowley usually checks his texts frequently, so if he hasn’t replied he’s either incredibly distracted, incredibly inebriated, or ignoring Aziraphale completely. Maybe a combination of the three.

It’s not _really_ breaking in if Crowley gave him the keys to the place.

He just hasn’t used them before and, while it feels silly to admit, it’s because this feels like a bigger step than it should. He’s been to Crowley’s flat plenty of times but letting himself in with his keys, keys that Crowley had made for him, feels like a big step in their relationship and Aziraphale doesn’t know if he’s quite ready to take it. They’re still going a bit too fast for Aziraphale. He’s working on accepting that.

He takes a breath, opens the door, and is immediately met with an _ungodly _amount of cursing.

“Fuck no! Jesus Christ, can you not do one thing right? You had _one_ goddamn job!”

_Ah, incredibly distracted then._

Only a few things can set Crowley off like this. When he’s not shouting about work, he’s shouting about-

“Fucking piece of shit bread.”

The kitchen is a disaster, messier than Aziraphale has ever seen it be in his life, and in the middle of a maelstrom of flour and utensils is Crowley, crouched in front of the oven door and glaring through the little window. If looks could kill, and if bread could be killed, this one would be long dead. “I’m sure the bread doesn’t appreciate being referred to in that way.”

Crowley looks up and its as if his face goes through a few potential expressions before settling on a strange combination somewhere between _happy to see you_and _might commit murder_. “Bread should have thought of that before deciding not to rise.”

“What recipe did you follow and since when do you bake?” Aziraphale asks as he gingerly sits on the floor in front of the oven to take in the supposed disaster that has Crowley so worked up. A flat little disc of dough sits just behind the window, absolutely refusing to do as it’s told. One long finger, black nails still caked with forgotten bits of dough, points accusingly at the yeasty criminal.

“That thing doesn’t _have _a recipe because the _useless_ archaeologists spent too much time looking for treasure and not enough time looking for _bread recipes_!”

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley, absentmindedly brushing flour off his cheek before the words hit him in full. His thumb hovers over the course dust. “I’m sorry, did you say _archaeologists_? Crowley, what bread is this?”

“Common peasant’s bread from the Ptolemaic dynasty.”

Aziraphale looks at the unassuming, half-baked dough in the oven. Nothing about it, other than perhaps the slightly grittier texture, really screams _over two thousand year old bread recipe_. “Why in God’s name are you making literally _ancient_ bread, Crowley?”

Crowley looks cornered, suddenly, his eyes glancing quickly between the bread and Aziraphale as if hoping that one of the two might cause a distraction great enough that the question could be dropped. No such luck. “If you laugh, I’ll take back the keys.”

An empty threat. He’s protective of this, whatever it is, and Aziraphale’s heart melts at the thought. Crowley, the demon responsible for the original sin, is getting sentimental and even defensive about _bread_. Aziraphale kisses his forehead, his hand resting once again on his cheek in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. The bread itself, in spite of its lovely scent, is long forgotten. “Of course I won’t laugh, dear.”

Crowley leans imperceptibly into the touch of his hand, letting his eyes close and taking in a slow breath before finally speaking. “It reminds me of you. You worked in that library in Alexandria, talked about it endlessly every time we bumped into each other. Almost like it was your _baby._ You essentially lived there. When it burned, I thought I’d lost you.”

The little tomato timer on the counter rings, shrill but ignored.

“Made me realize how much I appreciated whatever we were back then. I’d missed you so much.”

A hand combs gently through auburn curls.

“Then the next day you showed up at my door holding an armful of scrolls, some fruit and cheese, and _that_ bread.” They both glance at the unassuming little loaf in the oven and Crowley sighs. Aziraphale wonders how terribly soft he’d seem if he started to cry right about now. “Tried making it every year since but it never turns out. Never actually the same. Wrong yeast, wrong flour, wrong oven, whatever.”

“_Crowley_…” Aziraphale pauses, searching for the right words to somehow explain the way his heart aches in his chest. It’s the good sort of ache that comes from realizing just how much you love someone and just how much they love you, the sort that usually comes from proposals and tentative first kisses, not confessions of _this bread reminds me of you._ But, then again, the angel and demon had never been a conventional pair. “That is the single _sweetest,_ most _thoughtful_ thing I have ever heard.”

“Yeah, well, didn’t do any good. Still left us with bad bread,” the demon responds but the faint redness of his cheeks betrays his feelings, a hidden confession of _love you too._

Aziraphale gets to his feet, grabbing an abandoned pair of oven mitts from the counter to pull out the current loaf. “Good thing we have all of eternity to get the recipe right then, dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a disaster to write and 90% an excuse to incorporate two of my favourite things: the history of food and Crowley's lack of cooking skills. It kind of started off as part of the 666 challenge but obvious grew to be...a lot.
> 
> As always, please leave comments and kudos! I adore the feedback and reading everyone's comments always absolutely makes my day <3


End file.
